


The More Things Change...

by notjustmom, scrub456



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Gen, Minor Character Death, Post-World War I, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 05:03:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7030075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trying my hand at a Victorian/Post World War One story, as it opens, Holmes has retired from cases and on a cold November day, meets a recently returned soldier who can only be the son of his estranged friend, Dr. John H. Watson.</p><p>Thank you to my lovely partner in crime, scrub456, who will do her best to keep me in the correct era and typo free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Same Face, Different Time

4/6/188-

My old friend and companion, Dr John Watson married Mary Morstan, on this day, 04, June, 188- (last number is smudged, illegible) I know this to be fact, because I was present, or at least a version of myself observed the seemingly happy couple ducking under the rice, as they made their way to their hansom. I never knew he had so many friends, perhaps they were hers...

 

26/11/1918

He had put the last of the gardens to bed for the season, and though it was cool, he was exhausted and wanted his sandwich and bit of cake. He started for his bench. Everyone in the neighborhood knew it was his bench, except this young moron who inhabited it now. He was about to launch into a tirade, his park, his bench and where was his -

Blond, mustache, cane - military, recently returned from the Great War. He limped forward and tapped the napping man on the shoulder. The young man startled, almost in fright, but then it was his turn to jump at least internally when he found himself looking into the eyes of a young Watson. He had heard through certain circles that they had struggled to have children, but finally Mary had given John a family, in the form of a son. Sentiment - bah.

"Did you, hmm, happen to see a sack containing a sandwich and bit of cake? That would be my lunch as that would be my bench you are currently resting upon."

"Ah, yes, apologies." Same voice. With an slight grin, he pulled the sack from under the bench and offered it to Holmes. Same hands, same tremor - opposite side, tan line, newish tattoo, would be hidden under cuffs usually, but his shirt was a little short in the arms for him. He was still ill, obviously had lost more weight than was healthy, perhaps one of the few that had recovered from the flu, or perhaps a result of his recent injury. Regardless, Holmes unwrapped his sandwich and ripped it half, offering the young man the larger portion.

They ate in silence, both staring straight ahead, each contemplating something far into the distance. Finally as Holmes brushed the crumbs from his lap, he addressed the young man next to him.

"May I know the name of my sandwich rescuer?" He inquired gruffly, but quietly, trying to hide the nervous curiosity that threatened to spill out.

"Of course, since you did share your lovely pickle and cheese, haven't had one in years. My parents gave me quite the handful; at birth I was named William Sherlock Scott Watson, but you may call me 'Scott,' never was a William." He offered Holmes his hand, and out of sheer shock, Holmes took the young man's hand in his. He was grateful for the young man's tremor, otherwise, his own quaking hand would be more noticeable.

"Just returned from the war, I was thinking perhaps France, but the new tattoo is of Arabic design, so, North Africa. You were injured. In the leg, but you also have some nerve damage in your shoulder. You lost someone close to you, both in the war and at home -"

"Very good," whispered young Watson. "Yes, I served in North Africa. Believe it or not, I prefer the desert to this grey muck. First thing even before I went home to my father's house, I got the tatt, before I talked myself out of it. I almost made it out of the skirmish without a scratch, but a week before the end, I got nicked in the knee and lost my...best friend; I learned later that I had also lost my mother that day."

Holmes unwrapped the cake and handed it to the young man. "She was a lovely woman, I am sorry." He was afraid to ask. "And your father?" 

Scott chuckled darkly. "He is of heartier stuff, he had but a slight fever and a cough, and he would have been left untouched, but he would not let anyone else care for her at the end."

The younger Watson blinked, then turned and looked at the older man next to him. His parents had had no family, and few friends especially later in life as the remaining members of his father's regiment were dying off. He took a close look at the man who was studiously trying to avoid his eyes.

"Wait, you knew my mother? You know of my father? And that thing you did, that remarkable thing, a 'deduction?' Bedtime stories, my father told me. I thought you were a character...just a story..."

"Loosely based on someone who looks vaguely like me. Your father always romanticised me and our 'adventures.' A brief, shining period of my life, which was made more - Excuse me, if you wish to, please remember me to your father, or do not, if it would cause him further pain at this time." 

Holmes stood, bowed slightly to the young man and began the long walk home.


	2. After...

Today was one of the days when he missed Mrs. Hudson the most. He had a new housekeeper, but she was younger, and though efficient, did not know him, not like Mrs. Hudson had. She had known how to talk him out of a mood and when to leave him be. This girl had her hours, made the tea, left plates at the door when he didn't answer and collected them again whether or not he had eaten anything.

Mrs, Hudson would have scolded him for leaving that boy on the bench by himself. She would have wondered how he could have left John Watson's son there, as the sky was about to grow dark. He shook her from his shoulder and walked up the stairs to his empty and silent flat.

He hung up his coat, and poured himself a stiff drink and sat down at his desk to write.

"Dearest Watson -"

I was saddened to hear of your loss. 

No.

 

"My dear John -"

Definitely not, he had never called him John in his life, now was definitely not the time for familiarity. They weren't even friends any longer, were they? In the preface of the first Sherlock Holmes story, the intolerably sentimental tale of "their" case that involved Irene Adler, it was dedicated to:

"...my friend, Sherlock Holmes, the best and wisest man I have ever known."

But were they friends? Had Watson forgiven him, and had he forgiven Watson for his abandonment for a safer, more conventional existence? He honestly did not know.

 

Watson-

A mutual acquaintance informed me of your loss. Please accept my condolences as they are heartfelt, as I know you must -

 

He ripped the paper methodically into strips and added it to the stack of kindling ready to be lit in the fireplace; after twenty rough drafts, he gave up and lit the fire. He looked at the meal that had cooled and congealed next to him. He hadn't even heard her come in. He carried the plate to the rubbish bin and scraped it clean, then placed the plate outside his door. He sat in his chair, lit his pipe and stared into the fire as he waited for the past to catch up to him.

 

As Scott made his way home, he found himself pulled out of the misery he had been drowning in for the last few weeks. He momentarily put aside his mourning, his anger towards his father and the constant physical pain that kept him awake all hours. 

He considered instead the man he had just met. Taller than his father, thinner, but he could tell from his handshake that he was stronger than he looked. He appeared older than he probably was, there was strong emotion in his eyes, the remarkable eyes that missed very little as he 'deduced' the younger man who had invaded his peace. Scott couldn't determine what the emotion was, perhaps simple grief that had been borne for so long that it had made a home there? He stopped short. What should he tell his father of this odd chance meeting? 

"A gardener shared his pickle and cheese sandwich and his cake with me this afternoon, claimed to be the model of those detective stories that kept you locked away in your study for hours each day...knew Mum, asked after you..." 

Scott almost laughed aloud, but stifled it. He realised at that moment, that this singular meeting had just saved his life. For good or for ill, he wanted to unravel the meaning of the look in his saviour's brilliantly unique eyes. He also knew that he was not ready to share this definitive event with his father. He could not stand to see it ridiculed or questioned; even if he were believed, he did not want to have it dissected and demystified. And, to be honest, he didn't believe that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was ready to meet his father again, after all these years, not quite yet.

He didn't even register how far he had walked until his father's voice called out to him, "Scott. I'm just putting on the kettle, care for a cuppa?" 

"Yes, father, thank you, that would be lovely."


	3. Father and Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst, yes, some angst, possibly some ugly-crying may be involved...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iAFnhJojMYY
> 
> * The Soldier, by Rupert Brooke, read by Sophie Okonedo

After tea, Scott sat in the sitting room with a book of poetry; David had given it to him on his twenty-fifth birthday, a few days before David died and he was wounded, in the same 'skirmish' the powers that be had called it. They had been lost in a sandstorm for days, then turned the wrong way, he had been one of the 'lucky' ones.

 

*The Soldier 

"If I should die, think only this of me:  
That there’s some corner of a foreign field  
That is for ever England. There shall be  
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed..."

His chin soon fell onto his chest and he snored lightly; his father picked the book up from the carpet after it fell from Scott's fingers. As he closed the book, he noticed the inscription on the beautiful bookplate:

Happy 25th, My dear S - I hope some day we will read this to each other back in merry olde England once we are done with this mess. - D

Watson replaced the volume upon his son's lap. He sat down in the chair across from him and looked at his child closely for the first time since he had come home ten days ago, almost the very image of himself when he had returned from his own war.

Scott had left home at eighteen for Cambridge, then was finishing up at Barts when he had come home to tell his parents he had signed up to fight "for France"; medics were needed. Weren't they always, Watson had thought to himself. Mary had been stronger than he, she had kissed him on his cheek, then rubbed the light pink mark away. He, the supposed 'unemotional' one, had wrapped his arms around his son, and wept, much to all of their dismay. He had backed away, then pulled out the money Scott would need for tea on the train as if he were going back to school after the holidays. 

Finally, a small smile appeared on his son's face and he had grabbed his hand, leaned forward and whispered to him, "keep an eye on her, she is cracking along the edges." 

He was right of course, she was never quite the same after he left, especially after the telegram that informed them that he was missing. Once she became ill, Watson knew it was a matter of time, not if she would die, but when, as she had already been dying of a broken heart when her son had left for the war. He had tried his hardest to keep her spirits up, but the telegram letting them know he had been found, injured, but not grievously, had been a week too late. She had kissed him on the cheek, rubbed the mark away, then closed her eyes for the last time.

 

"Father?" Scott blinked awake to see his father searching his face.

"Scott?"

"What is it?"

"I'm just very glad you are home, son. I'm sorry I hadn't told you that before now." Watson rose and placed his hand carefully on Scott's shoulder, walked into his study and closed the door behind him.


	4. Old Books

The next morning brought the late autumn rain much to his chagrin; Scott had wanted to revisit the park bench, in case the groundskeeper was working still on the gardens this late in the year. He sighed; getting out of bed and moving were always the hardest part of each day, once he was up and dressed he simply made himself get on with things. He went into the deserted morning room, and poured himself tea. No sign of his father. He wasn't surprised, yesterday's 'outburst' of emotion would probably keep him hidden in his consulting room or his study until he had enough time to recover his normal stoic demeanour.

He made himself choke down a piece of toast with honey, then wrote his father a note:

"Heading out for a walk, back for dinner. - S"

He threw on his wellies and his warmest coat, pulled on gloves and shoved a hat on his head. He had told 'Holmes' the truth yesterday, he much preferred the heat, bright sun and dust over this gray, bleak dampness. He grabbed his cane and hobbled to the door, selected a brolly from the hall stand and went out into the cold drizzle. He had no destination in mind, but ended up in front of the bookshop where he and his mum had spent hours when he was a child. She had loved the scent and feel of old books. There had been a rocking chair in the back; his mum would pick out a few books, then pull him into her lap and read to him until he fell asleep in her arms, nestled against her neck. It had been a very long time since he had felt that safe.

"Master Scott! I heard ye were back, right glad to see ye. I was so sorry to hear of yer mum's passing, she were lovely."

Scott nodded. Lovely. Holmes had used that word yesterday. He supposed it was the best word for her. There was much more to her than that, she was bright and sparkling, but few saw it, she was born too early, he supposed, she was not of this time, and suffered for it.

"I was wondering, hoping, in fact, that you would have a copy of that collection of my father's stories, you know those 'detective stories?' "

"Hmmph, stories, eh? Didn't your father ever tell of his younger years, when he got back from his war? Yeah, later, they became stories, fictional fluff, with bits of 'truth', think he got his 'facts' from the yellow press, you should have heard Holmes howl with laughter when he would come in and read me passages...."

"You know him? Holmes?" Scott heard his voice go up a bit.

"Course I do, he comes in more often when his season's done, probably won't be in today because of the rain, due to his rheumy knee, but yeah, he's still in his rooms at..."

"221 B Baker Street?"

"Even so. Course I got a copy of your father's book, Holmes can whinge all he likes, but they still make him a small profit, though he never touches it."

"What?"

"Oh yeah, yer father never took a penny of the money from publishing those stories, it always goes to an account for Holmes, ever since those bits of yer father's started making money. It was as if your father wrote the stories as penance for somethin'. "

Mr. James grabbed an older book from the shelf and handed it to Scott. His heart jumped a bit, on the paper cover was a sketch of the man he had met yesterday, younger, but still him, standing next to someone that could only be his father, who was sitting in a chair, his leg propped on an ottoman, perhaps they were discussing a case...

"On your father's account, Master Scott?"

"Oh. Yes. Yes, please. Do you still have that chair in back?"

"That ol' rocker? Oh no, that's long been retired, but there is a nice overstuffed chair with a good place to rest yer leg, if ye were wantin' to sit back there, I'll bring over a cuppa later? I have some nice biscuits."

Scott nodded, he was already lost in the beginning words of "A Scandal in Bohemia":

"To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer..."

He read through two strong cups of tea, a dozen biscuits and the conclusion of "The Speckled Band." In spite of the comfortable chair, he was stiff and his leg ached. He stood slowly and stretched, was about to collect his book and gear, when he heard the bell ring and he heard Mr. James greet Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

"Ah, Holmes, was just speaking about you to that young Master Watson, one recently back from North Africa, he was here - think he may still be in that chair you gave me when that rocker finally went."

"I won't disturb him then, just stopped in to see if you got in those books I requested yet? I have some roses I need to replace next year, time to decide on what to use..." Holmes' voice faded as they moved into a different area of the shop, and Scott waited until he heard Holmes wish Mr. James a good evening and the bell rang out his departure.

Scott dressed slowly, then thanked the bookseller for his hospitality and said he would be sure to visit again soon. He tucked the precious book away and walked out into the fading light.

"Mr. Watson, the younger, I presume," grumbled the voice from the park. "I do apologise if I startled you. My curiosity got the better of me, unfortunately. I wanted to see if you were an apparition, or if you were made of flesh and bone."

"I am quite real, Mr. Holmes. I too, am glad to see that you were not just a figment of my imagination. Shall we dine together, or are you still as adverse to eating as my father claims in these stories?"

"Lead the way, Mr. Watson. I occasionally do eat a bit of something, when the transport demands it."

Scott laughed. "You sound like your character, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes shook his head. "One of the few things your father got right in his stories, the character sounds a bit like me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Scandal in Bohemia:
> 
> http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/ScanBohe.shtml


	5. Conflagration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rough chapter to write and read, but they were idiots in 1918 too...sigh...I promised a happy ending, we'll get there, eventually.

"There had been a place that did a good beef and potatoes. Ah! Still here, I wonder. Before we left for the war, my friend and I scratched our names into a wall, yes, there it is. Scott and Davey 1916." Scott ran his fingers over Davey's name, then blinked. Holmes had looked away, knowing a moment of privacy was needed. 

"Beef and potatoes? For two? Couple pints of bitter?" Holmes shrugged, then nodded, he hadn't eaten since the smaller half of the pickle and cheese. Was it only yesterday when his peaceful life had been turned on its -

"Ah...Holmes and Watson together again, at last, eh, Holmes?"

"Zip it, Billy." Holmes shot back, with little bite behind the words.

"Just a bit of fun; spittin' image of his da, though."

Holmes considered the young man. For a brief moment, he had thought he was hallucinating at the park, it was almost a relief when he touched the younger Watson's hand. But it was as if he had been stung, the sharp pain that went through him as the slight touch threatened to pull his heart to shreds. After all this time -

"-did you know?"

"Pardon?" He took a sip of the dark beer and sighed.

"My twin losses, how did you know?"

Holmes looked down into his pint and shook his head. "Not here, son. How is your father?"

"As well as can be expected. I think he's existing on routine alone, at this point."

"He was a great one for routine, he believed people needed a certain amount of food at certain times of day; same for sleep. Always at me, to take care of myself....for what purpose exactly...?" The last words were not meant for others' ears, but Scott caught them and blinked. 

"You." Holmes lifted his glittering, darkening eyes and turned them upon the young man seated in front of him.

"I, what?" Scott somehow was able to withstand Holmes' glare and returned his own. 

"He loved you. Always did. Still does." Scott whispered then went back to calmly eating his dinner.

The fork fell from Holmes' hand and clattered onto the tin plate. He threw a few pounds onto the table and swept out of the pub.

 

"You're late," his father whispered from the depths of his chair as Scott attempted to creep to his room. He stood and faced his son; and took a deep breath in. Scott smelled of the pub, the bookstore, and of...

"Baker Street. You've met him then, haven't you?" More a statement than a question. "Is he still...how is his limp? Has he -"

"I met him by accident, by chance, at the park yesterday. He thought I was a hallucination; I thought he was a character you invented for my bedtime stories, but he's real, flesh and blood; and by God, father, he still cares for you, even now. I finally read the first eight of your stories, and it's so clear, thirty years later how much both of you loved each other, but wouldn't admit it. By God! No wonder Mother was as she was, and why you locked yourself away in your study, it was the only time you let yourself feel a damned thing. When you wrote these stories, they were for him, the one person you ever truly loved. No, that's unfair. You did love Mum in your way, and she - she knew, didn't she? All of her married life, she came second to your creation, a drug-addicted arse who couldn't have cared less -"

With all the fury that had lain buried for thirty years, Watson slapped his son across the mouth, then stopped as if he wanted to say something, but covered his mouth and walked briskly into his study, closed the door quietly and turned the key in the lock.

Scott held his hand to his burning face. His father had never struck him in his life before, not once. He had never even heard him raise his voice in anger, not ever. But Scott had either by accident or design, he didn't even know himself at the moment, wanted to see his father react, in some way. He had wanted to see if his father had actually truly felt anything for anyone, ever. Now he knew.

He pulled out his pocket watch, only nine in the evening, he wondered just how much damage he had done in so short a period of time. He looked towards the study, he did love his father, as much as you can love someone you didn't know; he knew he had hurt him badly, and he believed he knew the only way to fix the damage.

He picked up his cane and went back out into the wet weather which had turned nasty, bitter winds nipped at his face as he hailed a hansom to stop.

"Where to, Mr. Watson?"

"221 B Baker Street."


	6. Sacrifices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary makes a brief appearance in a flashback, set a week before her marriage...

"Mr. Holmes, Sherloc-" She stopped when she realised her breach of their boundaries. Up until this moment, they had always been Mr. Holmes and Miss Morstan, as propriety and society demanded.

Holmes spun at her use of his given name. "Mary. You cannot ask this of me. You must love him very much indeed if you would be willing to put your name to a marriage that could only cause you pain and shame if it ever came to light."

"I do, I love him more than I can explain to you. I would be willing to break off the engag-"

"Miss Morstan. You can give Joh- Dr. Watson what I cannot ever give him. I cannot give him a family, I cannot even offer him what you profess to have for him. I cannot love him in the way he needs or desires. Even if society was not clear in its hatred of people who desire to associate in that way; I cannot give him that. Please. I do hope that he is not aware of this kindness you believe you are showing me by acknowledging that you are even aware that he and I may have an emotional attachment of some kind. Good day, Miss Morstan. I do hope you will understand that I will not attend the 'festivities' in any official capacity, or attend at all."

"Oh, but, Mr. Holmes. That would break his -. Yes, quite right. I do think you are wrong. You do have a greater love for him than I could even fathom as you are willing to give him up completely. That is great love, indeed. Good day, Mr. Holmes..."

 

"How did you know?"

"Ah. Mr. Watson, the younger. Come to finish me off, then." Holmes could not see through the fog of tobacco smoke but heard the younger man pull out his pouch and his papers. "Be my guest, ahh, very nice indeed. You, at least, have good taste, or your father raised you right."

"How -?" Scott's voice was harsher, more insistent.

"The twin losses."

"Yes."

"First, simplicity itself. Your unrelieved mourning clothes yesterday, complete with black arm band and brooch on your waistcoat. A curl of your mother's blonde hair that was finally turning silver on the edges, crafted into a memento you could carry with you." Scott felt for the brooch that he had forgotten on his bedside table that morning.

"Second, your loss from the war; actually, you had been together since Bar-no, Cambridge. Somehow, you had been able to find a way to love him in an honourable fashion. You did not hide it, but you did not talk freely about him in a way that would cause legal issues. Very clever. You both went on to Barts; you had fine careers ahead of you; but, he was being pressured into a marriage he could not in all honesty say yes to, as in all respects that mattered he was already married to you."

"But - how?"

"The tattoo; in a place, the underside of you wrist, where only you would ever see it; save for the shortness of your cuff yesterday, I never would have made note of it. It appears to be of Arabic design, but if you look closely, it is his initials entwined together. Beautifully done..."

"And?"

"His ring, a signet ring, I believe, too small for you to wear, even on your smallest digit, you wear it on a chain, so the ring falls directly over your heart. You take it out when you are nervous, or are thinking of him."

"Very good, Mr. Holmes. You are quite correct, in all aspects. We went away to war, to escape his impending marriage. I was quite prepared to die with him, but I failed. I was able to help him end his misery with an overdose of morphine, he was all but dead, still breathing, still screaming, begging me -. But, I did not save enough for myself, so I did the next best thing, I gave myself up, knowing that they usually did not take prisoners. Again, my luck turned against me. I couldn't even bleed out fast enough...no, I was shot trying to escape. My survival instincts were far too strong to shoot myself. My mother would never have forgiven me. Of course, she was already gone, though she would have visited me in hell had I taken my life."

"She was an exceptional woman, Scott. I recently received some papers of hers from her estate. They were sealed and not to be opened except by myself on the occasion of her death, if I had gone on before her, they were to be burned. Do you understand?" 

Scott coughed and cleared his throat.

"Quite right, a little of this goes a long way, don't you think?" Holmes stood and threw open the windows; coughing as a blast of wintry air dispersed the tobacco cloud enough for the two men to finally face each other.

"I do understand, Mr. Holmes."

"Are you prepared to hear this now, or do you need time? I have not read these, but I have an idea of their content. It will not be easy, but I believe you will have a bit more sympathy, if not perhaps some empathy for the three souls who were all born out of their time."

"I would like to hear them as well." Watson had made his way up the seventeen steps unnoticed by either man and stood before Holmes.

"John - Watson. You do not, she would not have wanted you to know. Please?"

"She was my wife, Holmes. I wish to know what was in her heart in her last years. Please, Sherlock, my friend, do not deny me this? Not this, too?"

Holmes placed his hand over his dearest friend's heart and almost crumpled to his knees when he felt the old soldier's own fingers cover his. Watson held him up by his sheer will and asked him once more.

"Holmes, please."

"Very well, my friend."


	7. Implosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a bit more angst...but it's brief angst

05/11/18

"My Dearest Holmes -

I leave these documents in your capable, logical hands. I know I can count on your reason and love for John and our son though you have never met him. Perhaps by some chance, you will have met him by the time you read these papers for yourself.

To begin, of course you were right to throw me out of your rooms the week before we married. I had no right to not only deprive you of the love of your life, and at the same time the comfort of his friendship and presence. I have never forgiven myself for that. I hope, perhaps, that you can find it within yourself to forgive me, some day."

Holmes looked up from the letter to find Watson watching him, with such an open expression in his eyes he nearly broke and his voice stopped. He simply could not do it. Scott, sensing his near collapse, helped him to his chair, and barely breathed as Holmes handed the sheaf of papers over to him. He knelt in front of him and spoke softly. "Do you want me to continue, or is it enough, Mr. Holmes?"

"You have the right to know, Scott. She wanted you to know; it is your decision, son." Holmes closed his eyes and wondered if one could die from implosion. He felt everything within him start to curl in on itself, death would be kinder. Scott stood and walked to the window.

"Sherlock." Watson was there on his knees, mere inches away and the dam finally burst, as Watson wrapped his arms around him. Odd, he thought, there should be some sound, some earthquake or eruption, not this slow, muted unraveling of everything. He simply let everything go that he had been holding in for the last thirty years. He shook as his friend held on, whispering words of love and forgiveness, pressing kisses into his almost silver curls - he realised they were melting together, he could not determine where he began and John ended.

"John. I'm so, so, sorr-" he began.

"No, my friend, my heart, it is I who owes you -" Watson's voice trailed off.

 

"And for the record, Mr. Holmes, " Scott read on. "I did see through your disguise, your eyes gave you away, as always. I knew you would need to be there in person, to have the proof of your senses, that the deed had been done." 

He stopped and looked over at his father, the man he once believed had a heart of stone, if he carried a heart at all, cradling the man he had been forbidden by society to love and care for, and he felt ashamed for breathing the same air. He placed the papers back into the envelope, put them in his pocket and let himself out of the flat, down the stairs and slowly made his way home.


	8. Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and, a happy ending....

As Scott closed the door to the flat, Holmes stiffened in Watson's arms. He tried to extricate himself but his friend would not allow it. For a brief moment, he stilled and allowed himself to breathe in his friend's scent that engulfed him. He could discern the odours of his consulting room, strong and astringent; the scent of the wax he used on his moustaches, mixed with the ubiquitous tea and books and the home Holmes had never set foot in. At that thought he found the strength to push Watson away gently, and managing to stand on shaky legs, he made his way to the window.

"What would you have me do, Watson?" Holmes whispered at the stormy city below. "Has anything changed between us, other than we are thirty years older, and Mary has gone?"

"I am no longer afraid, Holmes. I am no longer ashamed of what my heart wants."

"And, what is it exactly that you believe this heart of yours wants, my dear Watson?" Holmes could not turn to face him, did not dare to look into his friend's eyes."Thirty years ago, I abandoned you to Mary, to convention, to the world out there, because I was selfish. What Mary had offered to me was not enough, I did not want to share you in any way. She even offered to break off the engagement so you could, what? Return to me? Hardly. After you had made the choice, you would have been here under false pretenses, not because you desired to be here, but because she would have given you up...."

During this rambling monologue, Watson had gathered himself together, dusted off his knees and walked to stand behind his friend. He moved close enough so that his moustaches could tickle Holmes' neck, and he could feel the warmth of John's breath against his skin.

"...oh, God. John? What would you have me do? For thirty years I had closed off my heart, allowing no one close...oh, please...if you intend to leave me again, leave now, because I could not bear it if..."

Watson had slipped his arms around Holmes and was gently nuzzling his neck with his lips and nose, breathing him in, tasting him finally. He felt Holmes whimper, then sob as he leaned back against him; Holmes had run out of words, out of excuses, he could no longer deny his heart.

"If you will have me, Holmes, I will never leave your side again. If you tell me to leave this time, you may as well put poison in my tea or shoot me dead, either method would be kinder than sending me back to my old life. I left my heart here that day, when you turned away from me. I knew that if I professed my love for you in that moment, you would have laughed, you would have deduced it away, made it something ugly, tarnish it, so I left you. I loved Mary as well and as honestly as I could, though she knew where my heart was; still here with you. In return, she gave me everything she could, we tried and tried to have children, for her sake, not mine. She needed someone who could love her as a child could, purely and unreservedly. And he does. He did."

"My name, you gave him my names..."

"Of course we did."

Sherlock finally pulled away and turned slowly to look at his friend. He placed a long elegant hand against his jaw and John felt him tremble, or perhaps he was the one shaking? He did not know, or care.

"May I, kiss you, please, John?"

John nodded and stood as tall as he was able, as Sherlock bent over him; their lips met and they froze against each other. 

"I had no idea," Sherlock whispered. "No idea that you were a sorcerer, John Watson."

 

Scott stood in the doorway of his father's study. In his haste to follow his son, he had left the door open. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but he knew it wasn't this. Somehow, over thirty years his father had recreated his own version of Baker Street. Everything but its soul was present. On the mantle: the skull, the letter opener, there were actual bills pinned beneath it; odds and ends, even a violin, waiting for the detective's hands. Scott lit a fire, as he was suddenly cold and poured himself a stiff drink. He sat in the chair he assumed was his father's and placed his feet in the chair that could only have been the stand in for Holmes' leather chair. His father had managed to live most of his life at Baker Street, and most of it with Holmes, even if it were a softer, kinder, more loving Holmes, the Holmes of his own creation.

Scott spent the next hours reading his mother's words and knew he could never share these pages with his father. Nor would he ever read them again. 

"Scott, if you hold your father dear, as I do, please, burn these papers when you have finished reading them, and let him go to Holmes. I think you understand better than I do what they mean to one another. Find it in your heart to forgive me, and please forgive them. My hope for you is that you find someone who will love you as you wish to be loved. I know you will find him, my son. Yours, ever and always, Mum."

He placed the last page into the fire and watched her words turn silver then into ash. Scott did not believe himself to be a religious man, or an especially forgiving one, but he prayed for the soul of his mother and forgave the two men whose only sin was to love each other too well, in a world that would condemn them for it.

 

Epilogue, eight years on:

"Scott! Love, see what they have done now! Your father has pushed the pen upon Holmes at last!"

Scott was washing up from his last patient of the day, and went to join Harry at the luncheon table. He kissed him softly, then sat and waited for him to read aloud the tale of "The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier."

"The ideas of my friend Watson, though limited, are exceedingly pertinacious. For a long time he has worried me to write an experience of my own. Perhaps I have rather invited this persecution, since I have often had occasion to point out to him how superficial are his own accounts and to accuse him of pandering to popular taste instead of confining himself rigidly to facts and figures. “Try it yourself, Holmes!” he has retorted, and I am compelled to admit that, having taken my pen in my hand, I do begin to realize that the matter must be presented in such a way as may interest the reader..."*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://sherlock-holm.es/stories/pdf/a4/1-sided/blan.pdf
> 
> *"The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier"
> 
> Many thanks go to my patient handholder through this xoxox to scrub456 <3


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